


Were and Seer

by Yuliares



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Gen, Seer Sherlock Holmes, Supernatural Elements, Werewolf John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:01:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26297584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuliares/pseuds/Yuliares
Summary: Sherlock slumped into a sulk. There ought to be rules about this sort of thing. He had new train tickets to examine, and a publication on the psychology of businessmen, and here he was wasting timewaiting.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You can read this as the start of two best friends, or if you like, two best friends who continue to grow in their affection.

Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently, turned to adjust the angle of his skull on the mantle. The distraction bought him mere moments before he dove to peer out the window again. The moon was bright and full, lighting the familiar tiles of nearby roofs and cobbled streets. A quiet, peaceful night. Sherlock growled in frustration, and threw himself into his chair.

“Any moment now,” he called out, voice overly loud in the empty room.

There was no response, neither immediately nor in the long minutes that he continued to listen carefully.

Sherlock slumped into a sulk. There ought to be rules about this sort of thing. He had new train tickets to examine, and a publication on the psychology of businessmen, and here he was wasting time _waiting_.

He thumped his head against the cushioned backing and willed the evening to _get on with it_ already.

Off in the distance, there was a faint baying of hounds.

Sherlock perked up immediately, leaping from his chair to peer out the window. How many blocks away? It had been too faint to tell the direction. He listened intently.

Quiet for one minute, and then two. Three... aha! There it was again, a bit louder this time, from the south.

This _must_ be what he'd been waiting for. Finally! He continued to listen, head cocked to the side, as the intermittent sounds drew nearer and nearer—the dogs must be by the park by now, he should think.

A sudden loud bang had him spinning around with an expectant grin, as someone violently burst through the front door downstairs. There was a slam and screech of metal as the deadbolt rammed into place, feet pounding heavily up the stairs—and a short man in a lumpy jumper staggered through his doorway, gasping for breath.

Again, the hounds called, and the man made a noise of despair. There was no outrunning his pursuers: obvious even to idiots. His face was open and expressive, shifting rapidly from panic to grim resolve. _Interesting_.

The man rushed past Sherlock to look down from the window.

“No good,” Sherlock said, blatantly examining him from head to toe. Short and sturdy, blonde, and more efficient in his movement than the soft, coffee-stained sweater would suggest. “At worst you’ll have a broken leg, it’s only the second story.”

The man looked at him with blue, wild-eyes, and broke for the second flight of stairs.

“Still not high enough,” Sherlock yelled. “80% chance of survival.”

“Oh, for fucks—” the man spun around and lunged for the kitchen, throwing open the drawers.

No luck for him. Anything sharp was currently buried in the plaster of Sherlock’s bedroom. He’d been practising his knife-throwing.

The man turned on him, and Sherlock felt a thrill up his spine as their eyes met and held.

“You must," snarled the man—were those canines? _Fascinating_ . “You must have some sort of weapon in this place. A gun. A sword. _Anything_.”

“Nope,” said Sherlock, popping the end of the word. Though if the man were truly paying attention, he'd realize such clean-shaven cheeks required a razor.

The hounds bayed—the man’s face twisted—and he once more went for the stairs. Apparently hurling himself off of it with 80% odds were still worth it. Or perhaps he was simply looking for the high ground, upon which to stage a last stand. The way he held himself marked him for a military man.

As illuminating as this had all been, it was time for Sherlock to put an end to the man’s rampage through his flat.

“John,” he said sternly. “Sit down, and I shall make them go away.”

The man nearly tripped onto his face. When he turned, he was pale, and his knuckles were white on the bannister. “How do you—”

Sherlock waved at the chair across from his. “You have my word. Just don’t do anything… rash.”

There was a loud banging at the door, and John flinched.

“Excuse me a moment,” Sherlock declared, and spun on his heels. He descended the steps with a bounce in his step, unbarred the lock, and cracked open the door.

There were three large men on the doorstep, and a fourth in back struggling to hold back two slavering hounds.

“Let us through!” shouted the closest man, and made to bull his way past. 

“No,” said Sherlock, stepping forward to block the way and refusing to give ground. “This is a private residence, and you are not only strangers, but very loud and belligerent ones. This is a restful time of night. Have you no consideration for the neighborhood?”

“We’re after a monster!” 

“Well, I don’t let monsters in, any more than I do strangers, so you can clear yourselves from my doorstep.”

“The dogs led us here,” the ruddy-faced man insisted. 

Sherlock drew himself up to his full height, raising his chin to glare down the length of his nose. “You will not enter. _This_ _I Have Seen_. You—” he pointed to the first man. “Drunk at the docks. Careful, or you’ll drown before a month is through. The gent in the back, skimming profits off the top. None of you lunkheads know numbers, and he knows it”

“Ey, that’s lies—”

Sherlock talked over him. “Left—outstanding warrant for burglary. Investigation still ongoing, I’m told. Right -” and his eyes flickered. “The woman you wronged has ceased looking for you, but her husband has not. I think you’ll find his rather large figure stalking your shadows in three-weeks time.”

"I'm not—"

“You don’t—”

“Shut it,” hissed the other. “Let’s get out of here.”

“But we know the beast is here!”

The leader threw Sherlock a baleful glare. “This isn’t over, _Seer_.”

“Goodbye,” said Sherlock, and closed the door in their faces.

He slid the locks home more gently than his new guest had, and went back up the steps to find John still on the stairs. 

“Sit down,” Sherlock said. “I’ll make some tea.”

Normally, he wouldn’t bother, but it seemed as if his guest would need it.

Indeed, it was accepted with trembling hands when he emerged from the kitchen and found John had indeed taken a seat, as requested.

The man brought the cup to his lips and grimaced.

“The sugar will help calm your nerves,” Sherlock told him.

“I know,” the man said shortly, and for a moment it looked as though he’d say more. Instead, he pinched his lips together and drank another sip, while Sherlock’s mind whirled. He knew—medical knowledge?

Sherlock sat in the chair opposite John, picked up a book, and pretended to read it.

After about a minute, the man sighed. “Are you really a...” he trailed off.

“Soothsayer? Seer? Diviner?” Sherlock suggested with snort, tossing the book aside. “I suppose. But that is hardly all I am. Stupid people always get hung up on that part. Yes, that includes you, but don’t take it personally, everyone is stupid." He lent forward eagerly. "You, however, are also interesting.”

John tensed, eyeing him warily.

“Lycan, if I’m not mistaken, chased by fanatics, but in the city and without a pack to turn to. You sit here on my couch drinking tea, and yet outside we have the full moon.”

John twitched. “You Saw—”

Sherlock interrupted him with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Only that the knives might be removed from the kitchen, and a whisper of your name. No, the rest is obvious—a man breaking in, looking to hurl himself out my window? Obviously distressed, obviously attempting to escape a fate worse than death. Persecuted then, or hated, or feared. Perhaps all three. You made no attempt to take me hostage, so not chased by the law. The gleam of your eyes in the light, not something a human’s eyes do. Exaggerated canines, and unnaturally quick reflexes - werewolf, clearly, with military background from the way you hold yourself. The men outside, also military background, now one of the many paranoia cults of fanaticism, hence your reluctance to confront them directly. What tipped them off to you? You look nearly normal. In most circumstances I’m sure you could pass.”

At this, the man flushed, and looked away. _Embarrassed_. “I had a bit of a… howl. I didn’t know they were patrolling nearby, and their dogs picked up my scent.”

Sherlock let his eyebrows raise. “A howl? Really, John, in the middle of London?”

John shifted uncomfortably and said nothing.

“Well, here you are," said Sherlock."They’re sure to have marked my door, but I do believe they still think they’re hunting for a wolf, rather than a man. Besides, they’ll be disbanded within three weeks.”

“How can you know that?”

“I recognized one of them. An… agent, if you will, of an acquaintance.”

“A friend?”

Sherlock’s face soured. “I should say not. But his goal _will_ be achieved, and your little band of admirers will have more pressing matters to concern them. So there’s nothing stopping you from moving in to-morrow.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you haven’t anywhere else to stay, not any place worth staying at. No pack—and if you wanted one, you could have found. There’s a room upstairs, I could do to split rent, and Mrs. Hudson will be delighted to have another lodger.”

“Mrs…?”

“The landlady. You’ll meet her tomorrow, she brings up breakfast at half-past six.”

“I’m not-”

“Of course you’ll stay the night. After your strenuous flight, another walk in the dark would be most ill-advised. There are sheets on your bed, and I can lend you a night-shirt and dressing gown. We can go fetch your things to-morrow.”

John’s shoulders sagged. “I… don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything,” Sherlock advised. “I’m going to play the violin now. Do you mind?”

“No… please…” John said, and drank the rest of his overly-sweet tea as Sherlock coaxed the first note from the strings—the first of what would be many private concerts.

~

Sherlock woke John at precisely 6:30am by stomping loudly and yelling, "Breakfast, John!". 

"Let him sleep, poor thing," a woman's voice was saying as he blearily pulled on his rumpled clothes. The scent of sausages and thought of tea pulled him down the unfamiliar stairs, where the tall man from last night—his new roommate?—and a short-haired woman with bags under her eyes turned towards him.

“Mrs. Hudson, this is John. He’ll be moving in immediately.”

“Oh Sherlock, I’m so glad you’ve made a friend!” cried Mrs. Hudson, shaking John’s hand enthusiastically, and John warmed immediately to her sunny smile.

“Roommate, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Sherlock?” John said, amused. “That’s an interesting name.”

Mrs. Hudson threw up her hands. “He doesn’t even know your name?”

“He can sign the paperwork tonight. And now we must be off!”

“But what about breakfast?” she cried.

“Much too busy. Good- _bye_ Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, making a beeline for the door.

“He’s always like that,” Mrs. Hudson whispered to John, stuffing a warm scone and sausage into his hand. “You learn not to take it personally.”

Sherlock paused, halfway out the door. “Come _on_ , John!”

John took an apologetic step towards him. “I—we’re going to get my stuff-”

“Yes, yes, go on then!” she said, flapping her hands. “I’ll see you later!”

Not keen on getting his pocket dirty, John hastily ate the sausage while going down the stairs, and was just starting in on the scone by the time he reached the curb.

“That was very rude,” John told Sherlock disapprovingly, brushing crumbs from his face. Sherlock rolled his eyes, hand out for a cab. 

“You were slow. We’ve got places to _be_ , John. I need you to smell a dead man’s coat.”

A taxi sidled up to them, exhaust sputtering loudly.

“I’m sorry?” stammered John, nearly choking on a mouthful of scone. “I thought—”

“Yes, yes, we’ll get your stuff. But first,” Sherlock opened the door and grandly waved him in, “The morgue!”


	2. Stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we return to 221B and get to know Mrs. Hudson

They do not go to John’s flat - they don’t even return to 221B, too busy rampaging through the morgue, literally  _ digging up a grave _ , which John just barely convinced Sherlock they needed to rebury, chasing down cabbies (or more specifically, their horses), interrogating stablehands, and then it was well past midnight and Sherlock flounced off into a cab with a  _ murderer _ , and it was only by shifting and following the scent that John had been able to follow. Not an easy thing, given that he had to strip naked and carry his clothes with him.

It was a good thing that his gun had been included in the bundle.

John had never shot anyone while stark naked before.

He’d fled from the scene right after and re-dressed himself in a dark alleyway, now with an awkward tooth-shaped puncture down one trouser leg, before he wandered back to the edge of what was now clearly a crime scene, no doubt alerted to the sound of his gun by the night watchmen.

The tall silhouette of Sherlock turned towards him immediately and made its way over.

“Hello, John,” said Sherlock casually, and they fell in step together. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I can’t believe you ran off without me! You nearly died!” huffed John.

“Nonsense,” scoffed Sherlock, turning out the collar of his coat and striding down the street. “I had almost broken the compulsion-”

“That  _ pill _ ,” snapped John, hustling to catch up - again - this was obviously going to be a thing, “Was practically between your lips!”

Sherlock spun around dramatically, and John almost ran into him, just barely bringing himself up short at the abrupt stop, nearly chest to chest. He stared up at the man, dark hair tousled and haloed in the light of the street lamps behind him.

“It was an excellent shot,” murmured Sherlock approvingly.

“Best not to speak of it, I think,” whispered John, and then he couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. “But thank you.”

And then they were both laughing under their breath - “Stop it,” hissed John, “This is a crime scene!”

“Do you always giggle like this after killing a man?” asked Sherlock, grinning, and John should have felt bad, he really  _ should _ have, but instead he found himself saying, “Well, he wasn’t a very good man. And I did spend the entire day chasing after a brilliant madman, so I think I can be excused some eccentricities.”

“Brilliant?” said Sherlock, something dark flickering across his face.

“Oh, come off it, you know you were. Now explain the rest of it to me properly, the last coherent sentence you shared was that the horse I smelled on that coat couldn’t possibly have been his-”

John’s stomach rumbled, and he suddenly realized it had been nearly twenty hours since Mrs. Hudson’s scone and sausage.

“Dinner!” burst Sherlock, suddenly. “I know an excellent place that is open late, we can talk there.”

“Alright,” agreed John easily, and when Sherlock offered him his arm, he took it.

~

John woke slowly, and squinted at the unfamiliar room. Ah, right. Baker street - his second night sleeping here - and the first where he had been allowed to sleep in, given the bright light from the window. He washed his face in the basin and reluctantly dressed in what were now two-day old clothes, grimacing at the dirt and sweat from the night before.

Unsure if his new roommate was still sleeping, John descended the stairs quietly as he could. He needn’t have bothered, apparently, because Sherlock was already up and in his chair by the fire, rustling a newspaper.

“Good morning, John,” said Sherlock, eyes flicking to him briefly before turning and bellowing down the open stairwell, “Mrs. Hudson!”

“Sherlock, really,” John said, frowning. “There’s no need to shout.”

Sherlock just snorted and returned to reading the paper, which left John to stand a bit awkwardly in the living room. He looked around curiously. There was a chair opposite Sherlock’s by the fireplace, where he had sat the night before, rich with the scent of tobacco and pine. A small kitchen that bristled with scientific equipment sat tucked in the far wall - he could see flasks and pipettes and even a bunsen burner, wreathed with the faint acrid tang of something acidic. There was a sofa as well, turned to face the fireplace. Near the stairs where he stood, a sturdy table with four chairs - and while the table was cleared, the chairs were all covered in miscellany. Stacks of papers, pamphlets, a riding crop, laced handkerchief, a framed glass case of… 

John took a step closer. Butterflies, apparently, the grotesque pins stabbing through their abdomens at odds with the beautiful colors and designs on their spread wings.

“John!” cried the warm voice of Mrs. Hudson, and John turned to smile at her. She bustled over to him, setting a covered tray down on the table, along with a small sheath of papers.

“Sherlock, you really ought to clean up a bit,” she admonished, then turned to John, tipping the cover up a bit on the tray, “Just a little toast and eggs for you, dear.”

Sherlock noisily flipped a newspaper page. “I’m sure you can manage to shift some papers and clear a seat for him, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Not your housekeeper,” she said sternly, before again smiling at John and patting the papers. “This is your renter’s agreement, I can pick it up with the dishes in about an hour.”

“The doctor and I can drop it off on our way out,” Sherlock said, setting the paper aside and surging to his feet. “Eat quickly, John, we have a cab arriving for us in twenty minutes.”

“A doctor?” cried Mrs. Hudson, and John was surprised to hear a note of alarm in her voice.

“Ah, yes,” John said. “I served in the army.”

“The kind that heals people,” Sherlock added, which made Mrs. Hudson’s shoulders relax.

“Oh, well, that’s alright then,” she said, after a pause.

John wondered what other kinds of doctors there were.

“I’m sorry if you’ve had a bad experience with doctors before,” he said, a bit cautiously.

“Oh, it was just one,” she said, hand fluttering. “My husband. Awful man, really.”

“I’m so sorry,” stammered John.

“You can tell him, Mrs. Hudson,” broke in Sherlock, and met John’s eye. “He can keep a secret. In fact, he’s a werewolf.”

“Sherlock!” cried John. You didn’t just - just out another man’s secrets like that!

“Oh! How lovely!” said Mrs. Hudson, beaming at him. “In that case - it wasn’t all bad, my husband did love me ever so much. But he thought I was his property, see. And he did murder  _ all _ those people.”

“Right,” said John, a bit faintly. “ Though I suppose you didn't know that until Sherlock found the evidence.”

Sherlock snorted. “Hardly. Mrs. Hudson  _ was _ the evidence.” He held out a hand to Mrs. Hudson, who put her arm out and let him gently roll up her sleeve to reveal - stitches. Small, neat stitches, all the way around her forearm. The skin above it was of a markedly different shade, almost as if… John swallowed. As if it had come from a different person.

Sherlock rolled her sleeve back down. “Mrs. Hudson just needed some… alternate evidence, given the circumstances.”

“Sherlock saw my husband found guilty and hung without revealing my… origins, and I got to relocate as his widow.” She patted Sherlock’s cheek fondly. “Without him, they probably would have tried to take me apart and put the different pieces back into the appropriate graves. But enough about the past. Look at you, a werewolf! I would never have guessed - I’ll have to serve you more protein. Sherlock mostly eats biscuits, but that’s not a healthy diet for anyone. I hope you’ll be a good example for him.”

“ _ Thank _ you, Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock, gently steering her back towards the stairs. “That’s enough.”

“Got a fresh jar of that orange marmalade you like.”

“We’ll drop everything off on our way out,” Sherlock said firmly, and finally managed to hustle her down the stairs.

John helped himself to a plate of scrambled eggs and two slices of buttered toast, and began to eat standing. “Where are we going off to, then?”

Sherlock threw himself back into his chair. “Your flat. I’m sure you’d like a change of clothes.”

“Heavens, yes.”

It was only when John went to grab his coat that Sherlock snagged a piece of toast and slathered it with marmalade, folding it in two as if it were a sandwich.

His glare dared John to comment.

John merely held the door open for him.


End file.
